by M. J. Pullen
“What?” Steven’s realtor smile was unfazed. Out of the corner of her eye, Marlowe saw Jo step forward to make sure she was getting this.
“It’s my business. That’s why I want to start paying you back, so I can keep the majority ownership stake.”
This wasn’t the time and place she’d planned to talk to him about this, but it had been on her mind ever since her conversation with Kieran on Monday. Aside from making her trembly and frustrated and beyond confused, he’d made her wonder whether she should have been clearer with Steven about what his twenty-five thousand dollars was buying. In her panic and distress after Tara left, Marlowe hadn’t thought through the implications of letting Steven become an equal partner. She’d never expected him to get this involved.
“But that’s not how investments work, babe…” Steven said, then stopped himself. “Look. None of this should matter anyway. We’re a team. We’re great together.” Steven put his hand on hers. “And when I said I wanted to celebrate our partnership, I meant more than just the business…”
Marlowe stared down at his hand on hers, too shocked to move. “Don’t say it,” she said as quietly as she could, feeling the blood run to her face. “Whatever you have planned, please don’t say it.”
To her surprise, he laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not proposing or anything. Well, not yet. Even I have more class than that.”
“Steven—”
“Just think how awesome it would be to be back together—you running the food truck, me flipping houses, both with our own TV presence. Think of the crossover promotions, babe. We’d be our own brand, like Tarek and Christina.”
“They got divorced.”
“Fine. Chip and Joanna, then.” He leaned in closer, rubbing his thumb across her hand. “Come on, babe. We have such great chemistry together. At least that much hasn’t changed between us. You have to know, I never stopped loving you.”
All right. Enough. Marlowe snatched her hand from his, finally letting her anger and disgust show. If she’d been hoping to spare his dignity for the cameras while he went through this partnership charade, she was over it now. “Don’t use that word with me, Steven. Ever. You want to live your life for these cameras and hire girls in tiny shirts to boost your ‘brand,’ fine. Maybe you can even hold me and my business hostage while you do it. Fine. I’ll live with my mistakes, including making you an investor. But don’t you dare bring love into this. I haven’t loved you for a very long time, and I never will again…”
She stopped. Behind the cameras, perhaps fifty yards from where they sat, she saw Kieran, walking in the other direction. At least she thought it was him. Why was he walking away? “Kieran!” she called, but he didn’t turn. “Wait!”
She stood, fished in her pocket for the truck key and tossed it to Steven. “Here you go, partner. Since you own half the business and make half the decisions, you can deal with getting this monster back to the garage tonight. Don’t forget to leave the dishes at the prep kitchen so I can wash them in the morning while you’re at your meetings. I’m going to call it a night.”
“Wait, Mar—”
But she was already headed to the truck to grab her purse. All that time on Takeout Takedown, Marlowe and Tara had been the most chill contestants. The rock-steady, focused team who didn’t play games or smack talk their opponents or fight amongst themselves. But more than once, Marlowe had wondered what it would be like to make a big scene for the cameras, to storm off in a huff, with all eyes on her. As she slammed the truck door and walked away, leaving Steven standing open-mouthed with his champagne glass, Marlowe decided her sense of satisfaction had nothing to do with the cameras.
15
Marlowe emerged onto the Tenth Street sidewalk, where Sunday evening traffic flowed freely in the gathering dusk. She hadn’t seen Kieran again since she ran to the truck for her purse. Now she was trying to decide what to do next. Her car was parked at the truck storage lot, so before she could do anything, she needed a ride.
When she pulled out her phone, she remembered there were several missed calls from Tara over the weekend, probably calling to wish her luck and to ask how the festival was going. Marlowe had been too busy to take them during the days, and far too exhausted to check the voicemails in the evenings before falling into bed for a couple of hours and starting the whole day over again.
Normally, she would call Tara back now to give her the rundown on the whole event, especially after what happened with Steven. But tonight, there was only one person Marlowe wanted to talk to, and she didn’t want to do it over the phone. She opened the Uber app and tapped the address for the Tipsy Trucker as her destination.
As soon as she walked in the door of the pub, she understood why Kieran had left the festival without saying good-bye. The place was packed and noisy, unusual for a Sunday night. Apparently, the festival had pulled everyone in the city out of their houses to enjoy the spring weather, and they weren’t ready to go home yet. At least with her business, she could just drive away when she was done. Poor Kieran had to manage until closing.
On her way to the bar, Marlowe squeezed through a tight throng of perfumed, tanned women in halter tops and crisp white linen pants. By contrast, a glance down reminded her that she was still wearing her stained Life of Pie T-shirt, rumpled khaki shorts, and the steel-toed work shoes she wore in the kitchen for safety. Maybe she should’ve gone home to change first? But Kieran had been working the festival all day, too. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she smelled more like a roasted pig than a rose?
There was a lone barstool open at the far end of the bar, and Marlowe had to excuse herself through a pack of half-lit guys to get to it. The older man she’d seen in the early pictures of the pub stood behind the other end in a Kelly-green apron, taking orders, and the red-haired bartender was in the center, filling a line of shot glasses with tequila.
She waved at the redhead as she settled herself on the stool and looked absently at the menu.
“What can I get you?” the woman asked, ponytail swinging. “We’re out of Irish eggrolls but we have everything else if you’re hungry.”
Marlowe was hungry. Three-days-on-her-feet-and-only-champagne-since-breakfast hungry. “I’ll take a turkey Reuben with fries, please.”
“Atta girl.” The bartender smiled. “Something to drink, hon?”
“Yeah—is Kieran here? He served me this awesome whiskey a few weeks ago and that’s what I want.”
The woman glanced overhead, expression tightening. “Kieran’s in his office right now, but if you know what he served you, I’ll bet I can find it.”
Marlowe shook her head. “Do you mind telling him I’m here, and that I asked for it? I’m…a friend, and I’d like to say hello.”
Trepidation crossed the woman’s ivory features, with a tinge of annoyance. It was a busy night for special requests that involved extra work.
“Look, I’m in the industry, too,” Marlowe told her. “I am sure high-maintenance customers probably come in here all the time asking for special treatment and whatever, but I really am a friend of Kieran’s. And I really need him to know that he’s the only one who can make my drink.”
This declaration came out sounding way cheesier than it had felt in her head. She just hoped Kieran would understand what it meant.
The woman made a face and set a glass of water in front of Marlowe. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She stopped at the end of the bar to enter Marlowe’s order into the register, and to print out a check for two patrons a couple of seats down. To Marlowe’s irritation, she also stopped a passing waitress for what seemed like an unnecessarily long conversation. When she finally disappeared toward the office, Marlowe didn’t see her again until after the sandwich had been delivered. When she returned, Kieran wasn’t with her; nor did she come down to Marlowe’s end of the bar to relay a message. She simply resumed mixing drinks as though Marlowe weren’t sitting there with her heart in her throat—including a neon-green concoction that co
uld have only been the Emerald Isle.
Marlowe wondered who had ordered the cocktail, right up until the bartender set it down in front of her. “On the house.” Her face was placid and unreadable, full lips lightly pursed. Marlowe waited for her to start laughing so she could join in on the joke, too. There was no sign of Kieran at all.
“But this…isn’t what he made for me before,” she said, trying to keep the whiny customer tone out of her voice. She sniffed at the sickly sweet melon drink and set it back down. “This has to be an Emerald Isle, right?”
“House specialty.” The redhead’s lips quirked up to one side.
She started to walk away, but Marlowe grabbed at her sleeve. “Sorry,” she said, when the girl glared down at her hand. “But this can’t be right. Did you tell him it was me? Marlowe? He told me I wasn’t an Emerald Isle kind of girl. He made me something with bourbon, and then he pulled a bottle from that shelf, and…”
She sounded pathetic and a little desperate, even to her own ears.
The woman’s hard expression softened. She started to speak, hesitated, looked around.
“What?” Marlowe prompted. “It’s fine. Really.”
“I don’t get paid enough for this crap.” She sighed. “Kieran said if you told me this was the wrong drink, I was supposed to tell you that he had it wrong. You weren’t the person he thought you were. I’m…sorry.”
She watched her words sink in with a mixture of compassion and irritation. When Marlowe couldn’t find anything to say, the girl tapped the bar lightly. “Look, dinner’s on the house, okay? Kieran…hasn’t been himself the last few days. I’ve been here three years and never seen him like this. You should come back when he’s in a better mood and we’re not slammed. I hate being in the middle of shit like this.”
“Sure, of course.” Marlowe covered her disappointment with an awkward smile. “There’s nothing to be in the middle of. It’s totally a joke. We’re always messing with each other like this. See?” She took a big swig of the syrupy drink to demonstrate the hilarity of the moment and regretted it immediately when her stomach roiled in protest.
“This is why I quit dating.” The bartender shook her long ponytail as she walked away. “Love makes people batshit crazy.”
16
Marlowe was still in a confused stupor when she finally pulled up in front of her apartment, but it evaporated when she noticed that someone was in her freaking house.
She could see from the parking lot that the living room light had been left on, which wasn’t like her at all. And as she stared at the window, trying to remember whether she’d even turned the living room light on before sleepwalking out this morning after four hours’ sleep, she saw a shadow of movement against the blinds. Perfect, she thought. Because after a day like this, why wouldn’t there also be a maniac waiting in my apartment to kill me?
She considered calling the police before going upstairs, but thought better of it. A Cops episode was the last thing she needed tonight, and there had to be some logical explanation. Or an annoying one—like a burst pipe, or a doggedly persistent ex-boyfriend. Steven seemed the likeliest candidate. She hadn’t given him a key recently, but she also hadn’t changed the locks since they’d broken up two years ago. After the stunt he’d pulled today, she wouldn’t put it past him to sneak in with the camera crew. A maniac with a knife was starting to sound pretty good, actually.
She decided to tiptoe up the stairs and listen at the door, with her finger poised over her phone to hit “Send” on 9-1-1 just in case. In the other hand, she gripped a tennis racquet she’d found in the back of her car, even though it wouldn’t do her much good against any real danger. Maybe she could smack Steven with it and pretend she’d thought he was a burglar. As she crouched at the door to listen, she heard a man’s voice and stiffened. That wasn’t Steven. A woman’s voice followed, and a laugh so familiar it might as well have been her own.
Marlowe could hardly get her key in the door fast enough.
“You’re home!” Tara cried, arms open like a grandmother welcoming her family back to the farm. “You’re… Why are you holding a tennis racquet?”
Calvin stepped out of the kitchen, carrying two bowls brimming over with ice cream. “Hey, Marlowe! Want some ice cream?” He laughed a little awkwardly as he tried to hug her while handing one of the bowls to Tara. “It’s Mayfield butter pecan. We couldn’t find it in New York.”
“What are you guys doing here?” Marlowe shrieked, accepting the bowl gratefully. She’d left half her turkey Reuben on the Tipsy Trucker bar next to the drink that looked like antifreeze and she was starving. “Are you sure? I don’t want to eat your Georgia treat. I can get this anytime.”
“We bought three cartons,” Tara said, spoon still in her mouth. “On our way home from Waffle House. Hope you don’t mind. Your freezer was shockingly empty. There’s also two gallons of sweet tea in the fridge.”
“Three cartons of ice cream? How long are you guys visiting?” Marlowe watched Tara’s face sink. She hurried to add, “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you guys, of course.”
“Did you listen to any of my voicemails?” Tara said. “I swear, girl. Your phone avoidance when you’re working is incredible.”
“Sorry. I’ve been really focused with the Dogwood Festival, which went great, by the way. I have so much to tell you…”
“We’re moving back,” Tara interrupted. “I tried to reach you to ask if we could stay with you until we find an apartment, but when we got off the plane I just assumed it was okay.”
“What? Why? Of course you can stay. Calvin, what about your job?”
“Hated it,” Calvin said. “I hated it so hard.”
“And we never got to see the city we were living in because we were both working all the time,” Tara chimed in. “Cal was working ninety hours a week as an associate, and I kept taking on double shifts at the restaurant trying to keep from flying through all our cash…”
“She was miserable,” her fiancé finished, and the look he gave Tara made Marlowe’s heart swell. “We both were. And I figured if I’m going to work insane hours and never get to look around me, I might as well do it at home where I know what I’m missing. And not living in a damn shoe box.”
Tara threw her arms around Marlowe, squeezing so tight she almost dropped her bowl. “And I knew my best friend needed me. I could hear it in your voice. Don’t even try to deny it.”
The familiar scent of Tara’s body lotion—cocoa butter with cherry-almond—made Marlowe want to weep with relief. “You’re right. I did need you. I’m sorry I never said it straight out like that.”
“She needed you, too,” Calvin stage-whispered. “Talked about you every damn day we were gone. But don’t tell her I told you.”
He headed back to the kitchen to get another bowl of ice cream, and Marlowe sat down on the couch with her best friend for the first time in months. She never thought she’d be so glad to have her apartment burglarized.
17
For weeks after they left, Marlowe had rehearsed the speech she would make if Tara came crawling back, begging for forgiveness. How she would be stoic but magnanimous, letting Tara know how much her betrayal hurt, but generously forgiving her all the same.
Now that she was back, however, it turned out that no apology was needed. Their friendship was too old and too strong to need big speeches.
They left Calvin sleeping the next morning and went to the prep kitchen together, working side by side in their sweats to get through all the dishes from the weekend. Tara talked about New York and how she’d tried so hard to love it; Marlowe filled Tara in on the show, the Food Truck Mafia, Steven’s absurd semi-proposal, and (to a lesser extent) her confusing friendship with Kieran. She left out their amazing kiss—which had taken place in this very spot—partly because she was embarrassed that she’d misread the situation so terribly. But mostly because, even now, the thought of Kieran’s mouth on hers made the blood rush to her face all over again.
“Seems like you should call him,” Tara said, not looking up from the pan she was spraying. “This Irish dude.”
“I think he’s made it clear that he’s not a fan,” Marlowe said. “Nothing says ‘thanks but no thanks’ like a shitty cocktail. And he didn’t even bother to bring it to me himself.”
“Mmm-hmmm…” Tara placed the last of the dried pans on the stack. “Let’s go get some lunch. I’m dying for the Varsity. I need a chili-slaw dog and a Frosted Orange like you would not believe.”
“It’s ten thirty in the morning. You guys really missed Atlanta, huh?”
Tara let her head fall on Marlowe’s shoulder in answer. “The good news is, we made it home before we’d spent all the prize money. I still have ten thousand to reinvest in our food truck…if you’ll have me, I mean.”
Marlowe sighed, thinking of Steven and all the complications partnership structures had already presented. “Of course I’ll have you, T. I love you. We’ll work it all out, even if we have to tie Steven down and force him to cooperate.”
They spent the rest of the day together, stopping in at some of Tara’s favorite food spots and discussing tweaks to the Life of Pie menu. Marlowe managed to talk Tara out of the Varsity for brunch, and they spent hours roaming around the Sweet Auburn market instead. They picked up some fresh veggies and tried the Afro-Caribbean place, new since the last time they’d gone together. They sat for a long time on a bench, sipping fresh juice and watching people walk by.
Calvin, who was back at the apartment, sending out resumes, requested red beans and rice from the Metro Deli for dinner; on the way out, Marlowe snagged a half-dozen pralines from Miss D’s on impulse. When they pulled up in front of the apartment that evening, just like they were still living there together, it was the most relaxed she’d felt in ages.
“A courier dropped this for you,” Calvin said as they unloaded their haul in the kitchen. He held up a small box to Marlowe, then snatched it back and held it far above her until she handed over the red beans and rice container.